Greek Affairs: The Virgin's Seduction: The Virgin's Wedding Night / Kyriakis's Innocent Mistress / The Ruthless Greek's Virgin Princess. Trish Morey

exactly what he wanted her to do, she thought, sitting up suddenly as if she’d been jabbed by a cattle prod. Maybe he’d figured out exactly how to push her to the limit, and that—travesty of a kiss had simply been a deliberate ploy to get her to cry off.

      In that way he could avoid keeping his part of the bargain, and walk away with everything he wanted. Leaving her plans in ruins yet again.

      Just a conman after all, completing his ‘sting’, she thought, aware of an odd stir of disappointment.

      But only if she let him, she rallied herself. And maybe he hadn’t taken that into his calculations while he was—mauling her.

      Well, now it was time to demonstrate that she was made of stronger stuff.

      Because she wouldn’t let him win. There was too much at stake for her to draw back now, however compelling the reason might seem.

      So, she would treat the entire episode as some—temporary aberration, she planned, her heart racing. Dismiss it lightly as an irrelevance. Make it clear that all she wanted was his name on a marriage certificate, following which he could—paint himself into a corner for all she cared.

      At the same time, she had to admit that he’d forced her to become altogether too aware of him as a man, rather than a signature on the dotted line she required. In fact, if she was honest, he’d been an irritation—an all-singing, all-dancing thorn in her side—from the moment they’d met.

      And now flesh and blood instead of the obedient, malleable figment of her imagination—and her will. And she found the reality—disturbing. She’d needed a stranger who would remain strictly a stranger, and suddenly it had become—up close and personal. Dear God, he was here—sleeping in one of the guest rooms. Or awake and thinking—what?

      But I can’t let it matter, she thought, staring round the moonlit room. This is my home. It’s my own place—the only security I’ve ever known, and I won’t let him take it away from me.

      So, I’ll just have to be more careful in future.

      When she arrived, heavy-eyed and faintly jittery, in the breakfast room next morning, it was to find Roan in sole occupancy, finishing off what appeared to be a substantial plate of bacon, mushrooms and scrambled egg.

      ‘Kalimera.’ He got politely to his feet. ‘Your grandfather asked me to say that he will be breakfasting in his room today.’

      ‘Oh.’ Harriet poured cereal into a bowl and added milk. She frowned. ‘He’s not ill, is he?’

      ‘Not at all.’ As she sat down, Roan resumed his own seat, then poured her a cup of freshly brewed coffee, and handed it to her. A civility which she accepted with gritted teeth. ‘I believe he thinks we might appreciate some time alone together.’

      ‘How very misguided of him,’ she returned coolly. ‘How did the chess go?’

      ‘It ended in stalemate.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Neither of us seemed able to find the other’s weak point.’

      ‘Grandfather doesn’t have one,’ she said. ‘I suggest you play your games elsewhere in future.’

      ‘Your early night,’ he said slowly, ‘does not seem to have sweetened your temper, Harriet mou. Is it possible you have changed your mind about marrying me?’

      Dream on, she told him silently.

      Aloud, ‘Certainly not,’ she said briskly. ‘Unlikely as it may seem, you appear to have ingratiated yourself with my grandfather, so once you’ve signed the pre-nuptial agreement the ceremony can go ahead as planned, and with his blessing.’

      ‘Although not in his presence,’ Roan said quietly. ‘He told me he does not approve of civil ceremonies. They smack, he says, too much of the rubber stamp.’

      She gasped. ‘You mean you invited him?’

      ‘I thought he might wish to give you away, Harriet mou.’

      ‘Well, thank goodness he didn’t,’ she said roundly. ‘It could have caused all kinds of problems. As it is, we can just—seal the deal, and go our separate ways.’ She offered him a small chilly smile. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

      There was a silence then he said, too courteously, ‘I live for the moment.’ He rose to his feet. ‘And now I must tear myself from you, Harriet mou. A cab is coming to take me to the station.’ He paused. ‘You need not accompany me to the door. We can let your grandfather assume we said a tender goodbye to each other in private.’

      ‘You’re all consideration,’ she said tautly. ‘But I always prefer to see visitors off the premises.’

      His brows lifted. ‘You are not very trusting, my sweet one.’

      ‘Small wonder,’ she said. ‘And please don’t call me by that ridiculous name. I am neither sweet nor yours.’

      He looked at her for a long moment, and she felt her heartbeat quicken involuntarily—uncontrollably.

      But when he spoke, there was no hint of anger in his voice. ‘It is not easy to please you, Harriet. But—I shall continue to try just the same.’ He then added quietly, ‘Now, finish your breakfast in peace.’

      And he went, leaving Harriet sitting at the table, staring at absolutely nothing, her cereal uneaten and unwanted.

      It would have to be the beige linen shift again, Harriet realised as she prepared to dress for her wedding. It was either that or one of her innumerable shapeless black trouser suits. She had nothing else in her wardrobe.

      And the dress was freshly laundered, she thought, regarding herself critically in the mirror. It looked clean and crisp enough.

      Yet it occurred to her, uneasily, that maybe she should have stretched a point and bought something to be married in. Not a wedding dress, as such. Nothing white or—or virginal. That was going too far. But something simple and pretty that would also do service on summer evenings, and during weekends down at Gracemead.

      And perhaps she should have tied her hair back for once with something more elegant than an elastic band.

      But why am I beating myself up about this? she asked herself with impatience. It’s not as if it’s a real wedding, or I’m a real bride. And Roan will probably turn up in jeans anyway.

      Nevertheless, she felt a vague dissatisfaction as she took a final look at herself, and left the bedroom.

      She’d ordered a cab to take her to the register office, but it wasn’t due for another five minutes, so she filled the time writing Roan’s cheque, and putting it in an envelope with one of her office compliment slips. After a moment’s thought, she took the slip out again, and wrote on it, ‘With every good wish for the future.’

      The personal touch, she thought, her mouth twisting.

      Then she sat on the edge of the sofa feeling oddly lost, her calm, pared-down environment for once failing to soothe her.

      Not that there was anything to worry about. It was all going according to plan. And Roan had gone to her lawyer’s office and signed the pre-nuptial agreement without a murmur.

      ‘Although I feared the worst,’ Isobel had told her. ‘He turned up with his own legal eagle—a guy called Jack Maxwell who’s pretty high-powered—and they spent quite some time going through it, line by line. I hope we haven’t forgotten anything.’

      She’d paused. ‘I also hope you know what you’re doing, Harry. What do you really know about this man, except that he’s broke and gorgeous?’

      ‘I know he’s a brilliant artist,’ Harriet returned a touch defensively. ‘That his mother was a well-known painter too, who met his father while she was on holiday in Greece. Apparently he’s involved in the Greek tourist industry, or so Roan told Gramps over their chess game. Which means that the old boy probably owns a taverna, and the son didn’t fancy a life waiting on tables. And he can